


Ouroboros

by Xanisis



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M, Sibling Incest, canon divergent from 3x18 onwards, dubcon/noncon bc of runic coercion, i made myself sad writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanisis/pseuds/Xanisis
Summary: To love is to destroy.





	1. Chapter 1

They stumble together into Lilith’s apartment, Jonathan’s arms wrapped around Clary’s shoulders. She’d activated his iratze as soon as she’d unhooked the chains, but his arms still feel sore and out of sorts. Clary holds him up easily, despite her small stature, and he finds himself leaning heavily on her. It’s still a surprise to be touching her at all, a marvel that she doesn’t move away. 

It is him that disconnects them. 

_ I’m going to take a shower,  _ she says, rolling her shoulders. She shucks her jacket as she’s walking, leaving it in a pile on the floor. Her hands go to her shirt next, pulling it up and off by the time she reaches the doorway. He gets a glimpse of the line of her back before she disappears from sight.

Jonathan thinks about following after her, about the way that she would look stripped down, soaking wet and looking up at him. Thinks about pressing her back against the wall of the shower and  _ taking  _ her. 

_ You joining me?  _ her voice comes from the next room. 

Jonathan stares blankly after her for a second, disbelieving, and then he starts across the room. 

 

.

 

The bathroom is already filled with steam when he pushes the door open, and he can barely see her through the clear glass. Still, even just the shape of her is affecting. He wonders if this is how Jace feels all the time, off-balance, how anyone would not be. For once, the thought is not accompanied by jealousy. She’s here, he thinks. She’s mine now. 

She turns at the sound of the door, and he expects her to shrink from him, but she doesn’t, just laughs, fluffing her wet hair.  _ You coming in?  _ she asks, warm and teasing like he’d always longed she’d be. It feels like a dream, like any moment he’ll wake up back in the cell with Clary hating him again. Still, if it’s just a dream, he might as well take advantage of it. 

His shirt comes off first, and then his pants, and then he’s opening the door of the shower and stepping inside. 

He’s never seen anything as perfect as her.  _ Clary,  _ he says. His eyes don’t know where to rest, the slope of her pale skin, broken up by dark runes, the tumble of red hair across her chest, her eyes, watching him.  _ What?  _ she asks, tilting her head. She reaches out and touches his chest, and he feels a tremble go through his whole body. No one has ever touched him so softly. The feel of it goes straight to his cock. A buzz of wild pleasure is humming under his skin, and he can tell that his face has gone strange and twisted. 

_ Clary,  _ he says again. He doesn’t know if it’s a warning, or just an echo of his ever present longing. But she knows, and she pulls him towards her with a hand to his neck, and then she is stretching up and kissing him. 

She starts softly, tentatively, but he has waited too long, and he doesn’t want soft or tentative. He wants to  _ feel  _ her with a strength that overpowers him. He sinks his hands into her hair, the cradle of her head between his palms. She opens her mouth wide, warm and slick and everything he could ever have wanted her to be. He presses her back against the side of the shower, the water an afterthought on his back. All he can think of is her, her skin, slippery beneath his hands and against his stomach, her breath, as ragged as his own, the pounding, beautiful reality of it, of her, so much better than any dream he’s ever had.

_ Tell me you want this,  _ he says, pulling back so that he can see her face. The pupils of her eyes have grown so wide they could almost be black. For a second, he thinks he might not be looking at Clary at all. 

Her hand curls at the nape of his neck and then she is spinning them so that it is him against the wall and her pressing into him, her grip on him tight enough to hurt.  _ I want this,  _ she tells him.

And really, that’s good enough for him.

 

.

 

_ I can’t believe you’re really here,  _ he says. He’s still sprawled across the mattress, breathless. Clary makes eye contact with him in the vanity mirror and smiles. She’d pulled on his shirt when they’d finished and that’s all she’s wearing. He wants to pull it off her, to start all over again. He wonders if he’ll ever be satiated with her. Can’t imagine it.

_ Where else would I be?  _

 

.

 

_ Why do we even need the sword?  _ Clary asks. They are in Milan now, browsing art galleries. When he takes Clary’s hand in the street, she links their fingers together more firmly.  A feeling buzzes through him, a little jolt of pleasure at the brush of her skin. He wants more already, though it’s been less than an hour since he’s kissed her. You can, he tells himself, she’ll let you. It feels like a miracle, like every Christmas he never had. He tugs on her hand, and she stumbles to a stop.  He presses a kiss to her mouth, sloppy and off-target. She laughs, but kisses him back, open-mouthed. Her hand winds into his hair and they stumble off the sidewalk, and fall apart, laughing.

Looking at her, he feels a smile spread across his face, full of wonder. She tosses her hair back over her shoulder, and reaches out her hand for him to take again.  _ Why are you looking at me like that?  _ she asks.

_ I’m happy,  _ he says. 

She grins up at him.  _ And why wouldn’t you be? _

You have everything you ever wanted.

 

.

 

He takes her to Prague this time. They wander around the city, kiss on the bridge looking out over the river, eat Palačinky from a food cart with their fingers. Everytime he glances over at her she is still there. 

That night they go to the Bone Chandelier, and dance under the neon lights. It all washes over him: the drug on his tongue, the glow of the club lights, and her. Clary. He finds he can’t think of anything else. She consumes everything. 

_ Do you feel it?  _ he asks her. He has to speak loudly over the music. She looks up at him in surprise. He couldn’t put a name to the feeling that he means even if he wanted to, but she doesn’t ask, just moves in closer. With her pressed against him, he is suddenly, wildly terrified, his heart pounding too fast in his chest, and he thinks of moving back, of running, but he doesn’t, just pulls her in even tighter, as if he could collapse her into his chest and keep her there. 

For a long time they just sway to the music. 

 

.

 

Clary lines her eyes with dark eyeliner, heavy green eyeshadow, draws Lilith’s red across her lips.  _ What are you doing?  _ he asks her.  

She looks up from the mirror, and pulls those red lips into a smile.  _ What? Don’t you like it?  _

He wants to take a makeup wipe to her skin, remove the veneer, to peel the clothes, Lilith’s clothes, from her body so that she’s achingly bare again. 

_ You don’t need the makeup,  _ he says, moving to stand behind her. When he wraps his arms around her, she leans back into him. Her hair smells like Lilith’s shampoo.

_ Let’s go shopping,  _ he says. 

 

.

 

Clary lets him buy her floaty summer dresses and butter soft leather jackets, high waisted trousers and cashmere sweaters. Everything in light colors. He’s done drawing comparisons. 

_ Do you like it?  _ he asks her when she comes out of the dressing room again. She looks small and delicate next to him in the mirror, someone he could never have imagined in his previous life, someone he could never have touched. He lets his hand trace over her stomach to prove a point, pulling her into his side.

She blinks back at him.  _ Do you?  _

He would like her in anything. But this will do.  _ Let’s go home and take it off you.  _

 

_. _

 

They pull the furniture from the moving apartment, room by room and replace it with new chairs, new tables, new beds. But the task is endless, and soon Jonathan grows weary of it. Clary stops when he does, running a hand over her sweaty face. 

_ I’m bored,  _ he says. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t disagree.

The apartment now has a half-finished look as if someone had ransacked the place but gave up part way through.

_ Let’s just buy a new apartment then,  _ she says.  _ Make our home there. _

Sheer longing overpowers him, and for a moment he can barely speak.  _ Where shall we go?  _

She pushes off the table and comes towards him. Her arms thread around his middle, and he feels himself melt towards her, wonders why it feels as if it is her consuming him.  _ Wherever we want,  _ she says.

 

_. _

 

They find a place in Paris, a building with hardwood floors and a view. 

_ Did our mother never make you learn languages?  _ he asks her when he hears her butcher French for the first time. Valentine had drilled in him the importance of discipline. In Edom he had recited the tenses again and again. It had brought him comfort. 

For a moment she looks confused, and then her face smooths out.  _ I never took French,  _ she says, finally. 

 

.

 

_ Fuck, Clary,  _ he says. Her hand anchored on his chest, her hips moving in long, languorous circles, the sight of her above him, haloed by the morning light, it’s enough to make him light headed. His fingertips press harder into her hips to anchor him to the moment. He can feel a phantom pressure on his own skin. She clenches around him, and he groans. 

_ God, Clary,  _ he says. 

She sits up further, shifting him within her, and runs a hand through her hair, looking at him with hooded eyes.  _ I’ll never tire of this,  _ he tells her, surging upwards so that he can kiss her, taking her bottom lip between his teeth.  _ Tell me that we’ll always have this.  _

_ We’ll always have this,  _ she repeats dutifully. 

 

.

 

He comes home and finds her sketching by the windowsill, looking out on the cityscape. For a moment, he doesn’t want to enter the room. He thinks he could just stand there forever watching her, knowing that she was waiting for him. 

And then she looks up and meets his gaze. He’s never wanted anything like this, like her. Never known another person could make him feel so good. 

Mine, he thinks. Mine forever. 

 

.

 

They go demon hunting at night, pull on gear and pretend to still be Shadowhunters. The sight of her, hand wrapped around a seraph blade, has him half-hard already. He thinks about pulling her into the nearest alleyway and fucking her, how she would be warm and wet and gasping for it. The fantasy, the fact that he could take her hand and it would become real, is almost enough to satisfy him. Another night, he thinks, and the thought fills him with unspeakable pleasure. A whole life is unspooling out in front of him, a lifetime of her. 

When they find the demon nest, they fall upon it as one unit. It feels incredible to fight beside her, as good as the sex, better maybe. A blade here, an arm, a leg, and soon the entire nest is dead. 

He wipes ichor from his face, smiling over at her.  _ Bet fighting with angel boy never felt that good.  _

She turns to look at him.  _ Who?  _ she asks. For a second he thinks she’s joking, but then she raises her eyebrows and repeats the question.

_ Clary,  _ he says, coming towards her. There is a scratch on her jaw from when one of the demons scraped him.  _ Are you alright? _

_ Of course,  _ she says, brushing a piece of hair from her face impatiently.  _ Why wouldn’t I be? _

 

.

 

They go to the farmer’s market on Saturdays and buy fresh ingredients. He cooks it into extravagant dishes, eggplant parmesan with hand rolled pasta, duck confit with smashed potatoes, cheese souffle and fresh tomatoes. Clary watches from the counter, kicking her feet against the lower cabinets, and eats everything he gives her.

_ What do you want?  _ he asks her.  _ I’ll give it to you.  _

She looks up from her plate, fork raised halfway to her mouth. She tilts her head as if the question has confused her. 

_ What do you mean? _

_ Anything you want,  _ he says.  _ Anytime. It’s yours. _

She looks over his shoulder, and then her eyes return to his face.  _ You’re all I need,  _ she says. 

The answer should satisfy him. She’s all  _ he _ needs after all. But he looks at her again, more closely, and wonders if she’s lying. 

 

.

 

_ What made you change your mind?  _ he asks. He’s been avoiding asking the question for weeks now.

_ About what?  _ she asks. She’s set up an easel in the corner of the apartment and has taken to painting most days. He likes to just sit and watch her build the paint layer by layer. Their parents had gifted him only destruction and horror. They had saved all the beauty for her. Two halfs, he thinks. One whole. 

_ Me,  _ he says.  _ Us. _

She frowns, sticking the paintbrush in her hair. She has a swipe of green paint across her cheekbone like blood. 

_ You called to me,  _ she says, finally.  _ And I answered. _

 

.

 

He wakes in the middle of the night and finds her sitting by the window, her face washed in the moon’s blue light. _Clary?_ he asks, sitting up in the bed. She turns towards him, and he is struck dumb by her yet again, her hair unbound, her limbs bare and pale, her lips red in the halflight. He wonders, not for the first time, if he would be as affected by her if she were half as beautiful as she is now, if the call of blood would have sustained him. I have a lifetime to find out, he reminds himself, doesn’t know why at this moment it feels so fleeting, as if he turned his back she might fly out the window and never return.

_ Come back to bed,  _ he says. 

She obliges him, folding into his side. He sinks a hand beneath her shirt, feeling the now familiar warmth of her skin against his palm. I will never take this for granted, he promises. I will love you always. 


	2. Chapter 2

Clary regards herself in the mirror, her hair falling from her bun, the marks on the side of her neck, her eyes, dark and worried. The robe slips from her bare shoulder, exposing her collarbone, the rune etched beneath. Behind her, Jonathan is asleep in the bed, his face twisted in pain. He has nightmares most nights, and they make her restless. She should climb back into bed with him, curl around him, skin to skin, until his sleep eases. She should wake him, make him tea and let him talk through it all slowly: Lilith, the fire, Valentine, and the scars he brought. Instead, she touches a hand to the rune again. The wound has long since healed and the skin is smooth beneath her fingers. 

She sits there a long time.

 

.

 

They walk through the park, Jonathan’s arm slung over her shoulders. She feels as if he’s always touching her, as if she’s not real when he’s not.

_ Everything is so old here,  _ she says. It’s a marvel to her, having grown up in a city where it seemed like everything was always under construction. 

_ I can tell you the history,  _ he says, eager as a puppy.  _ If you’d like.  _

She knows he wants to tell her, so she nods, but soon she loses track of his words and just watches him speak. His face is bright and animated, content in a way that had once seemed impossible. I did that, she thinks. I made him happy. She’s not sure how she feels about the fact. 

Still, whenever he looks over to check that she’s still listening, she makes sure to smile. 

 

.

 

_ You can talk about her, you know,  _ he says. He is chopping bell peppers into thin strips, not meeting her gaze. 

_ Who?  _ she asks. She rips the kale off the stalk. And then the next one. 

He comes up behind her, wrapping arms around her midsection, squeezing tight. Snakes sometimes smother their victims to death, she remembers.

_ Our mother,  _ he says.  _ You never talk about her.  _

You don’t talk about Valentine, she thinks. 

There are other people she doesn’t mention either, gaps missing from every corner of her life. Simon and Izzy and Alec. Jace. What’s one more thing left off? What more is there to say?

_ Sometimes it feels like we’re the only two people in the world,  _ she says. She wonders when that became true. When he started to eclipse everything else. 

He presses a kiss to her shoulder.  _ You’re my world, too,  _ he says.

That’s not what I said, she thinks. 

 

.

 

Jonathan decides to go back to school just for something to do.  _ Catching up on ten years of learning,  _ he says.  _ Funny what you miss when you’re in hell. _ He spends hours at a time outside the apartment now, but she has trouble making herself leave. She’d thought of applying for art school again, but she can’t muster the energy. She isn’t the same girl she was a year ago, the girl who’s biggest dream had been the Brooklyn Academy of Art. Instead, she just sits in the apartment and paints canvas after canvas. They’re all abstractions now, though she’d always thought of herself as a realist. Blue goes on first, and then red. Her hand is shaking on the paintbrush and she has to set it down. 

She gets up and walks to the window. Outside, people bustle on the streets. The city moves on. Inside, she watches and waits for spring, for Jonathan to come home.

 

.

 

_ Are you happy?  _ Jonathan asks her. His face is anxious. 

She feels her lips pull upwards.  _ Why wouldn’t I be?  _

 

.

 

_ We should christen every surface,  _ Jonathan tells her. They fuck on the kitchen counter and the bathroom floor, the couch and the window sill where she sits each day. Soon, there isn’t any surface in the apartment that doesn’t remind her of him. 

She digs her nails into his arms, his hips, pulls his hair hard enough that he hisses with pain. He takes all of it, gives it all back. 

_ I never thought I’d have this,  _ he tells her. 

It is mid-afternoon and they are still in bed. The sheets are rumpled and smell like sex.

_ Have what?  _

He is playing with her hand, running a thumb back and forth across her knuckles. His hands are still smooth and unscarred. It is hard to believe him a killer now, though she knows otherwise. Perhaps the rebirth had wiped it all clean. Perhaps he just has not had enough time to ruin his hands again.

_ Love.  _ His smile is twisted to the side.  _ Happiness.  _

_ A family,  _ she says. 

His eyes are hopeful on her.  _ A family,  _ he repeats. 

 

.

 

She pulls on a bra and then a camisole, pants, socks, a pair of heavy boots, a sweater and then a coat, a scarf next and then a hat pulled low on her head. Once she is outside though, she feels lost, as if the city she sees is not the one she had expected. The wrongness of it overtakes her. Before all of this, she had never even left New York. 

She walks to the bakery down the block from her apartment, and orders coffee and a pastry in broken French. The staff all know her by now, call her the American girl with fire for hair. 

_ Where is your beau?  _ the lady asks her, smiling. 

My brother, Clary thinks. But of course these people only see a young couple in love. And why wouldn’t they? 

_ Oh, he’ll be along shortly. _

 

_. _

 

_ You don’t create runes anymore,  _ Jonathan says. 

She’d been doodling in her sketchbook and it had turned into a drawing of him. She’d captured him well, she thinks, looking back at it, the relentless intensity in his eyes, the mouth posed somewhere between a smile and a frown. 

_ No,  _ she says.

_ Why not?  _ he leans forward into her space, pulling her towards him with a hand to her bare calf. She feels a sharp burst of feeling at the contact, pleasure maybe or revulsion.

_ They’ve always come to me when I needed them,  _ she says. 

_ And you don’t need them now?  _ His face is wary, as if he doesn’t believe her. She wonders what more she can do to prove her loyalty to him. If he would like it if she begged. 

_ Why would I?  _ she asks. 

 

.

 

The hunt amps her blood, makes her feel more alive than she ever does at home. After the demons are dead, Jonathan takes her hand and pulls her into the alleyway. She feels as if every part of her is exploding. When he kisses her, it is just an extension of the battle. A fight with a different name. 

His hands fumble at her belt buckle and push her pants down and off. She wraps her legs around his waist, held up by him. The brick scrapes against her bare skin. It is cold and she shivers, full-bodied. 

Jonathan raises his head from where he has been mouthing her neck, leaving deep imprints. She watches the bruises bloom against the side of his neck, unprompted.  _ Do you want to stop?  _ he asks her. 

There is a need within her, so deep and unquenchable she is not even sure it is her own. The only time it begins to be filled is when he is inside her, when she can pretend for a moment that they are one person. Two halfs of one whole. 

_ No,  _ she says.  _ Don’t stop.  _

_. _

 

Every day her old life feels farther away. 

 

.

 

Jonathan takes her to an underground speakeasy. Everyone there is mundane, wealthy and beautiful and carefree. Clary wears a silk dress under her winter jacket. Jonathan wears a suit.  _ You look gorgeous,  _ he tells her when he zips the dress up. His hands move over the silk and grasp at her waist. In the mirror, she sees herself, and is stunned to realize she is no longer a girl.  _ So do you,  _ she tells him. It is true, after all.

In the club, she tips her head back, lets her body sway to the music. Jonathan brings her glass after glass of champagne and she swallows the bubbles down, feels warmth spread through her whole body. Jonathan is an awkward dancer, and prefers just to watch her, though she isn’t much good either. But when a slow song comes he pulls her close to him. The smell of him, like rust and sandalwood. The way her whole body relaxes into his, as if exhaling. She wants to move even closer, to crawl inside his chest and make a home there. 

Are you happy? she wants to ask him suddenly. Living like this? Unable to breathe?

Or perhaps it is just her that is breathless.

She closes her eyes and lets the music wash over her. It is enough, she tells herself. It is enough. Wonders why she has to tell herself at all.

 

.

 

Spring comes over the city, melting the piles of snow. Clary opens all the windows in the apartment and lets the fresh air wash over her. She has always loved spring, the return of the sun like a renewal. 

_ Let’s go to the beach,  _ she tells Jonathan.  _ I want to see the water. _

 

_. _

They take the train out of the city and head to the shore. It is beautiful there, as beautiful as she could ever have imagined it, but it does not bring her peace. 

_ Do you like it?  _ Jonathan asks her. 

_ Of course,  _ she tells him. The sun freckles their bare skin, turning pale skin red and brown. They play in the ocean, let the water swirl around their ankles, kids again for a moment. In the surf, Clary raises her arms, a bird poised for flight. She wonders if there is a rune that would let her soar above it all. Beneath her, Jonathan would be but a tiny dot on the beach. His arms latch around her waist, lifting her, and she laughs, startled. 

_ What are you thinking about?  _ he asks her. 

She smiles.  _ Nothing,  _ she says.

 

.

 

_ Do you regret it?  _ he asks her.

She looks up from her book. There are many things he could mean, and for a second she does not know at all what her answer should be.

_ Killing our father,  _ he clarifies. 

It seems like so long ago that she had faced down Valentine, had stood weeping over Jace’s body. It seems like so long ago that she had even thought of Jace. Of anyone she had known before. 

_ No,  _ she says.  _ I don’t regret it. Not any of it. _

He smiles, satisfied, as if it is the answer he had wanted.

_ He thought of us as his creations,  _ she tells him, unsure why she feels the need to add it.  _ But we’re not, are we?  _

Jonathan’s eyes are unreadable. He, who is so often an open book.  _ No,  _ he says, finally.  _ We don’t belong to him anymore. _

_ Who do we belong to then? _

He smiles then, and she can tell he means it.  _ To each other. _

 

_. _

 

She and Jonathan go to out to bars with some of his classmates, normal people who have never even seen a demon. In another life she could have been one of them.

_ How did you two meet?  _ one of the girls asked. She is pretty, in an offhand way, and looks like the type of girl Clary might have been friends with before. Now, looking at her just makes Clary uncomfortable. The distance between them feels too stark. 

_ I met him in a dream,  _ she says, trying for sardonic.

The girl laughs as if it is a joke.  _ Well you’re a cute couple,  _ she says, and turns to the girl on her other side.

Clary leans farther into Jonathan’s side, tries to disappear. 

 

.

 

When Jonathan is gone from the apartment, Clary bakes bread, stilted, lumpy loaves, and cleans the place top to bottom. She punches the training bag hard enough that she has to buy a new one. She fills so many canvases the closet overflows with swirls of color. She turns the TV on and watches French news on mute. She stands in front of the window, unseeing, for hours at a time. 

_ What do you need?  _ Jonathan asks her again.

_ Nothing,  _ she tells him.  _ Nothing is wrong. _

 

.

 

_ I love you,  _ Jonathan tells her, his forehead pressed to hers. She closes her eyes, feels her heartbeat pounding loud and steady in her ears, feels everything in her reaching out to him, like her whole being has realigned to fit his.

To love is destroy, she thinks. 

And to be loved is to be the one destroyed. 


End file.
